


Four Little Words

by Syrum



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blow Jobs, Bruises, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Sam Winchester, Pining, Romantic Soulmates, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-01 17:09:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: Everyone has a Soul Phrase, the first words uttered by their intended when in earshot.  Sam hates his; they're too common, impossible to match and the biological reaction whenever he hears his phrase is nothing more or less than a distraction.  Then, an amber-eyed janitor walks into his life and everything changes.Dean isn't quite so lucky.If his luck held out, and they were matched, the man should noticeably react to whichever words he chose, provided they were unique enough.  Something simple but note-worthy.  Nothing too ridiculous.  Nothing which could be misunderstood or misheard or ignored and certainly not the terribly cliche and all too common ‘are you my soulmate?’  Instead, what tumbled out of his mouth was a far too simple, “So, how long’ve you been working here?”“I’ve been mopping this floor for six years.”





	1. Tall Tales

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by the utterly wonderful [WarlockWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarlockWriter/pseuds/WarlockWriter)!

“Can I help you?”  Sam kept his expression neutral, a practiced stillness from almost two decades of hearing those same four words from too many people, of knowing what it meant.  Of falling asleep with the scrawl of dark text on his wrist a little too blatant even in the darkness of whichever motel room he was occupying for the night, of waking with the same question staring back at him mockingly.

It was near enough a daily occurrence by that point.  Some stranger would utter his words to or near him, their meaning all too _common_ in a sea of people with ‘hello’ and ‘good morning’ printed like a tattoo of natural pigment somewhere on their skin.  Since Dean’s reappearance in his life, the frequency had increased; knocking on the doors of strangers dressed in monkey suits tended to have that effect on people.  They were used as a wary, almost defensive response for those who may or may not have something to hide, a method of triggering conversation, an angry growl of forced confrontation or a mild confusion at finding two strangers staring them down, even the helpful chirp of a store assistant - and Sam loathed every syllable.  His soulmark was simply too normal, and he knew the likelihood of finding his intended was close to zero.

No different from most of the population then, really.

It shouldn’t bother him, it _didn’t_ bother him - except, it did, and no matter how many times he had his words thrown at him he couldn’t quite force down the surge of _hope_ that bubbled free from the box he had firmly pushed it into the last time he heard them.  And the time before. And the time before that. It always escaped, that little murmur of _what if_ , and each time he pushed it down further, wanting to find the point where it might never resurface to clench at his heart and trigger the gaping cavern of disappointment when, invariably and inevitably, it wasn’t a match.  

Dean would mock him for being a ‘girl’, his father would have chastised him for allowing the distraction of anything beyond the job and the family business.  Bobby would give him that endlessly sad look that spoke volumes about a man who had both found, and lost, the other half of his soul. Sam’s wrist itched beneath the plain brown band that served to hide the shame of his hope, and he forced himself to ignore it.

“-appreciate it.”  Dean’s voice pulled him back to the present, and if either he or the five-foot-something janitor with the wide brown eyes that bordered on honey and curious expression had noticed that anything was wrong - or, well, _different_ \- they didn’t let it show.  The man was, at a glance, a handful of years older than Dean - which would put him at perhaps a decade older than Sam himself, mid-thirties and with the fine lines that spoke of a life filled with laughter and mirth.  Build-wise he was decidedly average in everything aside from height, with slicked back hair that curled at the ends, giving him a soft look that Sam wanted to bury himself in. He would have been attracted to the man even without hearing his words from those plush lips, curled in private amusement, and when that honeyed gaze flicked down and up his body he wondered if - perhaps - the feeling was mutual.

They followed him up to the dead professor’s office, Sam remaining a good half-step behind his brother as Dean chatted amicably with their temporary companion.  It gave Sam the time he needed to process, to pull him back to the present, and to consider his next move. He hadn’t spoken yet - or, at least, he didn’t recall saying anything, though that counted for less than nothing if the man had heard even so much as a snippet of his conversation outside with his brother.  Still, that gave him _some_ leverage, and he revelled in the illusion of control for the moment, well aware of what he was doing.  If his luck held out, and they were matched, the man _should_ noticeably react to whichever words he chose, provided they were unique enough.

Something simple but note-worthy.  Nothing too ridiculous. Nothing which could be misunderstood or misheard or ignored and _certainly_ not the terribly cliche and all too common ‘ _are you my soulmate?’_  Instead, what tumbled out of his mouth was a far too simple, “So, how long’ve you been working here?”

Sam winced, and the man levelled him with an odd look, whether at his chosen words or at the oddity of his behaviour he couldn’t yet tell.  Golden eyes swept over him, appraising and assessing and leaving a low tingling hum in their wake, before turning away to flick the lightswitch, bathing the office in artificial light and leaving Sam swallowing around an oddly dry mouth.

“I’ve been mopping this floor for six years.”

 

* * *

 

“Again, dude?”  Dean’s exasperation snapped Sam out of his internal musings, and he found that his hand had moved to rub at his wrist again, one finger having slipped under the band that covered the letters there from prying eyes to press against the words that had been marked into his flesh since before his birth.  “You’re getting one a week at the moment, just give it up.”

“Easy for you to say.”  The muttered response earned him a glare as Dean flopped back on his bed, careful not to spill the beer clutched in his hand.  It wasn’t fair of him, not really - but it wasn’t exactly fair of Dean either, to expect him to simply brush this off. Where his mark was overly common and near-impossible to match, Dean had the opposite problem.  The scrawl on his brother’s left shoulder was large, imposing, and nothing like any language that anyone had seen before. A mess of lines that thickened and thinned as they ran almost down to his elbow, even stretching to cover part of his back and chest.  It looked more like a child’s attempt at a vector drawing than a soul mark, an imprint of sound or impact waves that looped and curved over one another in a tangle of threads that were too much of a mess to even attempt to unravel. They weren’t words in the traditional sense - no one knew _what_ they were, or if Dean’s intended even existed.

Which meant Dean couldn’t understand, couldn’t even _begin_ to fathom the overwhelming sensation of his stomach dropping out and heart rate tripling, the cold prickle of sweat and the overwhelming singularity that the person who uttered those words created in that moment regardless of their intent or status.  A pinpoint of light, sharp and breathtaking, and it was only through more practice than he would like that Sam was even able to function through the first few seconds of a biological response he had absolutely no control over. Dean said he didn’t mind, that it didn’t bother him; one less distraction in a world where distractions could be the death of you.  Sam wasn’t entirely certain whether he believed his brother or not, though he was leaning towards the latter.

“So who was it this time; that redhead chick at the diner?  The blonde in the bar? Wait, how about the woman at the desk downstairs?”  Dean was watching him with a wary sort of curiosity, his irritation having simmered into something softer for the moment in the face of something he hadn’t - and likely wouldn’t - had the opportunity to experience for himself yet.  “She’s a bit old for you, don’t you think? Though, I guess if you’re a match that don’t matter much.”

“The janitor.”  Sam replied quietly, keeping his tone even and flat as the beer bottle paused half way to Dean’s lips and his brother simply _stared_.

“The dude with the-”  He paused, swallowed, brow scrunching up as he tried to sort through that little bombshell.  “Shortstack? That janitor? _He_ said your words?”  It wasn’t that Dean didn’t know what was written on Sam’s wrist, more that he didn’t really pay attention any more when people were talking to him if the information coming out of their mouths wasn’t of import.  He had a strange talent for filtering out anything uninteresting, right up until they got to the good part - and Sam wasn’t exactly immune where his brother’s selective hearing was concerned either.

The only real exception was when the mouth in question belonged to a suitably pretty girl, of course.  Then Dean was all ears, and Sam had wondered more than once whether his brother was over compensating for something.

“No, Dean, one of the _other_ janitors we’ve spoken to today.”  Rolling his eyes, Sam slumped back in his chair with a huff and pushed his laptop lid shut - he wasn’t going to get any further research done that evening, anyway.  Not with the leftover dregs of his earlier reaction to his words still coursing through his system. His wrist itched and he pulled the band off, tossing it unceremoniously onto the table so he could rub at the sensitive skin beneath, seeking some relief.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a reaction this intense, and not for the first time he wondered if that _meant_ something.

“Well, shit.”  Dean’s expression smoothed out and he took a long pull of his beer, seemingly less bothered by the revelation than Sam had initially expected.  It was nowhere near the first time Sam had considered another man as his potential intended, and if Dean knew as such he certainly hadn’t said anything.  Still, knowing and _admitting_ were two very different things, and the swiftness of Dean’s acceptance was like a balm against a burn he hadn’t known he had been suffering from.  “He wasn’t bad on the eyes, I guess. And,” the lecherous grin that spread all too quickly across his brother’s face should have been enough of a warning, should have given Sam the opportunity to cut his brother off before he even started.  Somehow, it didn’t. “He’s almost exactly the right height for-”

“ _Dean!_ ”

 

* * *

 

“Hey man, thanks for coming out to meet me on your day off.”  Getting away from the motel - away from Dean, who had over the past couple of days gone from vaguely irritating to the one person Sam wanted to be around even _less_ than their father - had seemed like an excellent idea when Sam slid into the electrician’s coat that morning and stormed out with his wallet, phone and key to the room.  The handgun tucked into his belt had been an afterthought, and it wasn’t likely that he would need it, but it didn’t hurt to be a little prepared - though he wouldn’t have been surprised at that point to find that the bullets had been replaced with plastic replicas as the one-sided prank war escalated.

Except, that could potentially put both of their lives in danger, and his brother wasn’t _that_ stupid.

“No problem, kiddo.”  The janitor grinned up at him, all teeth and amusement - and really, if this whole thing panned out as Sam was starting to hope it would, he really needed to get the guy’s name.  And maybe his number, because the wobbly smile he offered in return wasn’t of his own choosing, and the butterflies hatching in his stomach were apparently trying to take him apart from the inside.

Heck, even if he _wasn’t_ Sam’s intended he might try to get the guy’s number; Sam had a type, and the man standing chin-height in front of him ticked almost every box he could think of.

Sam had hoped that, in catching the man on one of his off-days, he might have chosen to wear something a little more revealing than the oversized uniform he had donned the last time they had met, button sleeves covering his wrists entirely, potentially hiding away the telltale scrawl on his skin or coverup strap.  His heart had sunk in his chest at the weather that morning however; unseasonably cold, and true to form the man had arrived wearing a heavy jacket with sleeves that went almost all the way down to his fingers. It was entirely too large for him, swamping the much smaller man, and the flush that coloured Sam’s cheekbones was from more than just the bite of the northern wind.

“Still, I appreciate it.”  His voice came out thicker than he had intended, twisted around a mouth and tongue that didn’t seem to want to behave themselves.  Undeterred, he reached out to the other man, offering his right hand to shake in a gesture he hoped would be seen as polite rather than bizarre, considering he had barely even spoken during their first meeting, stumbling over his words like a teenager with a crush.

Really, he was entirely ridiculous and likely deserved the level of teasing Dean was going to insist upon once all this was over.

The hand that gripped his own was firm and warm from having been encased in the too-large jacket, and Sam wasn’t certain whether it was his imagination or not but it seemed to linger a good few seconds longer than was absolutely necessary before the man released him, index finger scraping against his palm in a motion that was _almost_ deliberate.  Sam’s breath caught and the man’s grin seemed to widen minutely, though it was gone just as quickly.  

“Need me to stick around until you’re done?”  The building was several degrees warmer than the brisk air outside, and Sam almost immediately unzipped his jacket, feeling the heat of the hallway start to warm his chilled nose and cheeks.

“Yeah, if you could.  This won’t take me long; we missed checking something the other day.”  He’d decide what that ‘something’ was before they made it up to the office, though with how his attention kept wandering over to the overdressed form making its way up the stairs in front of him, he was starting to wonder if his brain would ever start functioning correctly again.

“You seemed pretty _thorough_ , last time you were here.  Sure you’re not just out for a few more minutes of my company, all on your lonesome?”  The janitor turned briefly to throw a mischievous glance over his shoulder, and Sam wasn’t proud of the way he stumbled over his own feet when the man offered a salacious wink, his face flaming.

“No, that’s- forms!”  He finished lamely, wincing as the much shorter man laughed at his expense.  “Gotta make sure all the boxes are ticked, you know?”

“Got a big bad boss grinding your ass about it?”  Sam choked a little, but it seemed to go unnoticed, or at the very least unacknowledged.  The office door clicked open and the man huffed out a breath, his cheeks slightly pink from exertion and overheating within that frustratingly large coat.  “They never turn off the heating in here, even when the occupant is six feet under.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”  Sam wondered absently, moving over to one of the plug sockets on the other side of the room and trying to look busy, keeping his back to the man.

“You’ve got your bosses, I’ve got mine.”  Came the flippant response, followed not a beat later by the sound of waterproof fabric rustling.  The zip seemed too loud in the empty room, though Sam’s heart rate apparently wanted to try and match it as his blood pounded within his ears.  Another shuffle of fabric and he tried to look nonchalant, really he did, but as Sam turned to look he couldn’t help the way his eyes flitted over the newly exposed skin as the man tugged first his left arm free and then, gathering the excess fabric, the right.

Blank skin.  Empty, flawless and pale, with not so much as a mark upon it.  No words, no band, just - nothing.

Sam knew his expression had shuttered, curling around the ache in his chest and violently shoving the last few wisps of what hope he had left back into the box they should never have escaped from in the first place.  He finished up as quickly as he could, keeping conversation to a minimum and leaving as soon as possible, feeling the odd look the man had levelled at his back as he strode away into the chilly morning air.

He had been so sure this time, _so_ certain.  It had felt _different_ , the man had felt _right_ , but in the end it had all been for nothing.  It was all in his head, once again, and he was still entirely alone.  It wasn’t the first time he had allowed his emotions to get the better of him, to concoct a fantasy from hearing his words that turned out to be nothing more than fiction.  Of course the janitor’s words were elsewhere, of course they didn’t match - and maybe that was for the best. He had thought Jess was his intended when he first met her too, and though her words weren’t from him she had wanted to believe it as well.  She’d died for it - for him.

He couldn’t do that to someone else.  Not when he didn’t even know the guy’s name.

 

* * *

 

Their next meeting had been an accidental one; Dean had not only hidden his laptop, left grease stains on his bed, destroyed a library book that Sam was going to have to end up paying for and spilled ketchup down his favourite pair of jeans - he had also thrown out the chicken caesar salad Sam had left in the fridge for his lunch that day.

Not that Dean would admit to any of that, but it wasn’t as though there was anyone else the blame could fall on.  So, Sam had stormed from their room yet again, leaving Dean to his loud music and softcore porn magazines. He was hungry, irritated, and the case they were investigating was growing more and more inexplicable the longer they were there.  He hated feeling so _inept_ , and while hitting up a bar sounded like a wonderful idea at that moment in time, it was only two in the afternoon and he really couldn’t justify drinking that early on in the day, no matter _how_ bad of a week he was having.

Which was how he found himself back on campus, standing in line at the entirely too tiny on-site mini mart, waiting to pay for a thoroughly unappetising lunch wrap and bottle of water.  He had considered a diner or a coffee shop, but the only places within walking distance were packed full of students and he really didn’t want the company right then.

“Well hey there, tall dark and delicious.”  The familiar voice had Sam’s head spinning around so fast he was certain he would end up with whiplash.  “Fancy seeing you here.” The janitor smirked up at him, and Sam was sure he hadn’t been in the packed store when he lined up to pay for his lunch - yet there he was, next in line, ignored by the gaggle of teenage girls who Sam was _certain_ had been right behind him until that point.

Still, they didn’t seem upset if he _had_ cut in line, giggling behind their hands about something.

“Yeah, same to you.”  He replied, wincing almost immediately; had he always been this bad at talking to people he was attracted to?  Probably, he couldn’t really remember, though the amused and almost fond smile that was levelled at him almost made the embarrassment worth it.  They weren’t matched, but did that really matter? Having said that though, their last meeting hadn’t exactly ended well, and Sam was honestly surprised that the man was even interested in starting up another conversation with him.  “Um-”

Thankfully, he was saved from further self-inflicted mortification or having to explain his previous rather rude behaviour by the harried ‘ _next_ ’ from the overworked cashier.  The unexpected pressure and warmth of a hand at the base of his spine propelled him gently forwards, leaving no room for argument as he found himself with the smaller man practically plastered to his side, and Sam found his cheeks colouring at the over-familiarity.

“Just these and the ridiculously healthy piece of cardboard my friend has picked out for his lunch, please.”  The man chirped, dropping a pile of candy onto the counter and plucking Sam’s wrap and drink from his hands. The checkout assistant simply hummed by way of response, not bothering to look up at them as the rapid-fire beep of the scanner put an end to any temptation towards conversation with the underpaid student.

“You didn’t have to do that.”  Sam muttered as his companion handed over a twenty to pay for the food, taking the nondescript plastic bag it had all been shoved into and waiting patiently as he collected his change.

“Of course I did.”  Another blistering smile was aimed his way, and to Sam it felt a bit like staring into the sun.  He was Iquarus, ready to fall to his death for that smile, and he found he didn’t mind in the slightest.  “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have any leveridge to guilt trip you into eating lunch with me.”

“You know you didn’t get any _actual_ food, right?”  The weather had improved somewhat since their last meeting, though the air still held a slight chill and Sam was glad for his jacket.  As they strolled away from the mini mart, Sam took the opportunity to look the other man over; a dark shirt unbuttoned at the top by perhaps one button too many, dark jeans that looked worn-in and comfortable and a khaki jacket with patches on the elbows.  At his throat he wore a silver chain with an odd-looking pendant hanging from it, each flash of metal in the afternoon sunlight a distraction and Sam wanted it under his tongue.

“How dare you!”  His companion gasped in mock-outrage, breaking Sam’s fixation and holding his hand to his chest in a ridiculous display that had Sam laughing before he could stop himself.  “I’ll have you know candy is the seventh food group.”

“I’m pretty sure water is the seventh food group.”  He replied, his tone wavering with the residual amusement.

“Does that even count?  It’s _water._ ”  The man wrinkled his nose in mild disgust, flopping down on the first empty bench they came to.  “Boring!” He sing-songed, indicating for Sam to take a seat next to him, throwing one arm over the back of the bench.

“So what brings you out here?”  Sam asked, making himself as comfortable as he could on the hard wooden seat, finding himself far closer to the other man than he had originally intended.  If he leaned back, just a little, he would feel the brush of fingers against his spine from where they rested across the back of their shared perch, almost disappointed when the arm in question moved away to rummage in the bag containing their food.  “And _don’t_ say lunch, because that-” he pointed at the bag of chocolate M&M’s the man had pulled open with a wide-eyed innocent look “-is _not_ lunch.”

“Heathen.”  He huffed, shoving a handful of the candy-covered multicoloured chocolate into his mouth, chewing carefully before swallowing and Sam knew a stalling tactic when he saw one.  He used the same one often enough himself, and allowed the moment; an opportunity to collect his thoughts and get the words right when there might not be a second chance. “Let’s just say I decided to take a walk on the off-chance I’d run into a certain someone.”

“A certain someone?”  This wasn’t a revelation, so much as a confirmation that the attraction Sam had been doing a terrible job of ignoring wasn’t one sided, and that the flirtatious comments and lingering looks hadn’t been conjured up by an overactive imagination.  This was - he didn’t know what this was, but he _wanted_ it, wanted the man beside him with an intensity that almost blindsided him.

“Yeah, maybe you know him.”  The man smirked wickedly, his expression triggering a pleasant flip of Sam’s stomach.  “Electrician, works for DSL. Terrible taste in food. Very tall, hot as sin with an ass I could spend _all night_ worshipping.”  If he hadn’t been certain before, he was now.  The leg pressed flush against his own allowed for no misunderstanding, nor did the way his companion leaned up into his space to make up in some small amount for the height difference, or the low purr of his voice that went straight down Sam’s spine to pool in his stomach.

“All night, huh?”  Sam’s pants were suddenly entirely too tight, hands itching to reach out and _touch_ .  His tongue darted out to moisten too-dry lips, and he didn’t miss the way his companion’s attention flicked to the movement and back up, pupils dilating.  “I might know someone like that.” They were so close, _too_ close, hot breath ghosting over his skin and it would have taken nothing at all to crush their mouths together in a mess of lips and teeth and tongue.  He didn’t though, he refrained, and if the heated look he earned was anything to go by he had made the right decision.

“In which case, why don’t we swing by my place and talk more about where I might find him.”

 

* * *

 

They had barely managed to get into the apartment before Sam was on him, crowding the smaller man up against the closed door and using his height to his advantage as he stole kiss after breathless kiss.  Hands threaded their way into his hair and held him there, leaving no doubt in his mind that he wasn’t the only one who had ached for this level of contact.

He hadn’t expected the legs which wrapped around his waist, though Sam adapted quickly to the press of thighs and extra weight, shifting his hands down to squeeze the man’s ample ass even as his hips ground down of their own accord.  This earned him a breathy moan that vibrated through his body, and he took the opportunity to press his tongue forward into his companion’s willing mouth, coaxing and needy for a moment, before retreating in a dance he knew all too well.

“Couch.”  The smaller man gasped out as they broke apart for air.  “As much as I want you to fuck me into the wall, if I don’t get my mouth on your dick in the next thirty seconds I won’t be happy.”

“ _Fuck_!”  If he wasn’t fully hard before, that was enough to finish the job.  The couch itself wasn’t too far away, yet the distance seemed insurmountable as teeth scraped against the light stubble of his jaw and Sam stumbled slightly, not wanting to release his precious cargo even for a moment.

“That’s the plan, hot stuff.”  The legs around his waist dropped as they reached the garish red couch in the middle of the room and Sam found himself spinning in place before strong hands pushed him back onto the plush cushions.  He bounced, just once, and instantly his lap was filled with five-foot-eight of wriggling, needy janitor, teeth clacking as they surged almost painfully back together while hands pulled and pushed and tugged at clothes that needed to be _off_.

“You haven’t told me your name yet.”  Sam managed to gasp out as kiss-bitten lips closed around one nipple to suck and lick at the raised nub, earning a groan at the spark of sensation.   His head rolling back with a gasp as an expert hand dragged over the twitching bulge in his jeans, hips shifting up and searching for _more_ as his too-hard cock strained against the fabric.  His lover seemed to agree, the pop of a button and slide of the zipper lost amidst another low whine as Sam was taken apart all too quickly, hot fingers wrapping around the length to tug slowly at the engorged flesh.

“No, you’re right, I haven’t.”  The man hummed, sliding backwards with a sinuous grace until he was knelt between Sam’s spread knees.  In less than a moment he had Sam’s jeans and boxers down past his ass, impressive erection springing free and already glistening with precum at the tip.  “Hello, big boy.”

“Please-”  He was cut off with a whimper as a hot tongue flicked over the head of his cock, lapping away the shimmering bead of liquid before vanishing again.  Eyes filled with mirth watched as Sam tried to buck up into the barely-there sensation, strong hands - far stronger than they looked - holding him in place.

“When I want you to beg, I’ll ask for it.”  The whole thing felt a little bit like a game, and Sam wasn’t certain whether he was winning or losing, yet as the man’s lips parted to breathe over his over-sensitive flesh he wasn’t certain that he cared.  “Now, are you going to be a good boy, or do I have to gag you?”

Sam wasn’t certain whether he was expected to reply or not, or what the right answer might be as he certainly wouldn’t mind being gagged by the gorgeous man kneeling between his legs, mouth hovering inches from where he wanted it the most.  It didn’t seem that it would come to that however - without warning, the man’s lips parted and swallowed him down, in one.

The scream that was ripped from Sam’s throat was barely human, and it was a good thing the man was holding him in place as his hips bucked and pushed against the confining hands, trying to find _more_ , to bury himself in that tight, wet heat as far as he could go.  His hands had buried themselves in golden tresses without his knowing it, tugging a little too hard and yet the man didn’t seem to mind, seemed to enjoy it even as thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks for a moment.  He recovered relatively quickly however, finding Sam’s gaze and holding it, daring him to look away. Swollen lips, stretched around the not entirely unimpressive thickness of Sam’s dick, managed to quirk up in what had likely been intended as a smirk and the man refused to break eye contact as he _swallowed_.

The sensation was unlike anything Sam had felt before.  Sure, he had been on the receiving end of quite a few blowjobs in his life, had given some himself as well, but never before had someone managed to fit all of him in at once.  Rather than pulling back to suck and lick at him, his lover continued to swallow around him over and over, and Sam could feel the man’s tongue moving and curling over the underside of his shaft wherever it could reach, just as his toes began to curl inside his shoes, the pleasure building in his gut growing too much too soon and he knew he wasn’t going to last.  He was humming softly, the vibrations sending sparks of pleasure all through Sam’s body, ending up in his core as he felt the impending crash of his approaching orgasm start to break through.

“You need to stop.”  He gasped out, his fingers tightening against the mess of hair beneath his palms, thighs quivering as he forced himself to hold back, body fighting the control he was attempting to enforce over it.  “Too close-”

He expected the man to pull back, to stop and perhaps finish Sam off with his hand, painting his chest with sticky streams of white.  Instead, the hands at his hips pressed down harder, hard enough that he would have bruises the next morning and the tight, hot, _sinful_ throat around his cock vibrated as his lover outright _moaned_.

Sam was doomed.  Tension built, his body trembled with the effort of holding back for just those precious few extra seconds and finally, blissfully, the dam broke.  With a pleasured shout that was almost certain to draw complaints from the neighbors, he released down his lover’s throat, leaving the man with little choice but to swallow down everything he had to offer and more.

Time seemed to stretch out in front of him, body shaking from the aftermath as he tried to come down from the post-orgasmic high that left him unable to think.  He could feel the hot slide against his rapidly softening cock as his lover pulled back, releasing it from his mouth with a final press of lips to the over-sensitised flesh, and Sam was unashamed at the small whimper that spilt from his lips.  Minutes passed, and after a while he became aware of the press of fingers against his still-spread thighs, talented digits pressing into what bared skin they could reach, bringing him back to himself. He was being watched - the man looked... _pleased_ , and Sam found that the expression warmed him in an odd way.

“God, that was…”  Sam trailed off, fingers finally loosening from their death-grip in the sex-mussed halo of his lover’s hair.  “God.” He could barely think straight, shivering as a deft, pink tongue darted out to clean the last remnants of his release from his softened cock, boneless and sated.

“Nope, just me, handsome.”  The roughness of his voice sent a shiver right the way through Sam, though his body protested against the almost-arousal quite so soon.  He was treated to a wink and a smirk, both of which promised so much more before the night was through, and Sam could only hope he would be able to keep up.

“C’mere.”  Sam was sure he could be forgiven for the slight slur to his words, mind still reeling as he tugged at the man’s arm, earning a low chuckle of amusement and willing compliance.  His hips were bracketed by a pair of denim-clad knees, and Sam frowned as he realised his lover was still half dressed and fully hard. Which, he reasoned, really wasn’t in the least bit fair, yet as he fumbled with the man’s belt he found his hands gently batted away from the buckle.

“Not yet, studmuffin.”  The man all but purred as Sam pulled him in for a messy kiss, fingers sending little shivers down his spine as they trailed over Sam’s broad chest.  He could taste himself in the kiss and it was oddly arousing, musky and forbidden, tongue chasing after the flavour of his release as his lover pulled back just far enough to speak.  “I think I remember saying something about spending all night worshipping that ass of yours.”

 

* * *

 

It took several long seconds after waking for Sam to get his bearings within the unfamiliar room.  White walls and a fairly high ceiling filled much of his vision, their monotony broken by a double window to his left and a door to his right.  The room itself was fairly sparsely decorated; a flat screen television on the wall facing the foot of the bed, a couple of retro-styled framed posters from old films Sam had heard of but never bothered watching but that he knew Dean would likely consider ‘classics’, a nondescript wardrobe and two bedside tables with, much to Sam’s amusement, a small lava lamp on each in place of regular lighting.  The bed beneath him was opulently oversized and monopolised most of the space, with high thread count sheets so soft he was certain they must have cost a fortune.

He had awoken alone, tangled in red cotton, his body still limp and sated even after a longer and more peaceful night’s sleep than any he could remember since Jess had died.  To his surprise, as he shifted just enough to roll over, he was decidedly less sore than he might have expected considering the extent of their activities the night before. _God_ , he couldn’t remember the last time he had been on the receiving end of sex quite like that - maybe never, and he sincerely hoped it wasn’t a one-off.

Sam was resolutely ignoring the part of his brain that seemed to want to remind him near enough continuously of the fact that, once the case was solved and they were no longer needed, he and Dean would be long gone and anything he tried to nurture with the honey-eyed janitor who had held him so sweetly last night would be undone.

The sheets beside him were still warm to the touch, and it was a testament to just how thoroughly he had been worked over that the man had been able to slip away without fully waking him.  Sam slipped - with some regret and a slight twinge to his lower back - from the comfortable mattress and plush pillows, finding a pair of red silk boxers that weren’t his own but fit regardless. He pulled them over his hips as a show of modesty, half hoping he would lose them again in short order, wriggling bare toes in the ridiculously thick carpet beneath his feet.  His own clothes were, as was to be expected, nowhere in sight and he padded through to the living space on near-silent feet, following the delectable scent of breakfast.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty.”  He was treated to the sight of bare skin and a brilliant, welcoming smile, the man having also apparently decided to forgo clothing in favour of Sam’s boxers and a garish ‘kiss the cook’ apron as he fried bacon, eggs and sausages in two shallow frying pans at the stove.  “Hope you’re hungry, I might have made too much.” The whole thing was startlingly domestic, and it sent a jolt of _want_ pooling in Sam’s stomach.

“You didn’t have to cook me breakfast.”  It was a fairly futile protest as Sam’s stomach growled loudly, all thoughts of dinner last night having been rather resolutely ignored in favour of losing himself in the arms of the man whose bed he had warmed.  The bubbling burst of warm laughter he earned was more than worth his minor flush of embarrassment.

“After you gave me the best night of my life?  Course I did.” It was tempting to wander past the kitchen table and wrap his arms around the smaller man from behind, to nuzzle into the mess of golden hair that sat like a tangled halo around his head and pretend the illusion of domesticity was commonplace enough that he wouldn’t have to return to the shabby motel room and the life he had tried so hard to leave behind him.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”  Sam replied, unable to help the small, pleased smile that dimpled his cheeks.  “Thank you, though, for all this.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”  Amber eyes glanced up and down his still mostly naked body, and Sam was surprised when he didn’t flush under the clear approval in that gaze.  “Not that anything about you is short.” Metal clanged against porcelain, as a veritable mountain of pork was tipped onto one plate, bacon and sausages tumbling together, while a fluffy pile of scrambled eggs made its way onto another.  A plate piled high with toast was already on the table, buttered and ready, and when his host indicated that he should sit Sam did so without complaint. “Pretty sure you’ve ruined me for anyone else after your performance last night, kiddo.”

Sam really wasn’t sure what to say to that, though it didn’t seem as though a response was really expected.  They ate in companionable silence, legs tangled together under the table, and even with Sam’s fairly extensive appetite the plates were barely half empty by the time they both put down their forks and sat back to enjoy the early morning sunlight filtering through the large windows.  It couldn’t last however, and with a reluctant sigh that seemed to start in one man and end in the other, they both pushed away from the table to start the task of clearing away the remains of their breakfast.

“Not sure guests are meant to clean up after themselves.”  A hipbone angled against his leg, bumping Sam as he carried the plates over to place next to the sink, a reminder of the height difference between the two men - and one that left Sam with a pleased smile on his face.  The water running into the sink began to foam and steam, and the scraped-clean plates were dumped unceremoniously into the hot water.

“You brought me home, let me sleep in your bed - which, is amazing by the way - and cooked enough bacon for about a week’s worth of breakfasts.”  Sam grinned, swiping the towel and beginning to dry their now clean plates as they were passed to him. “Pretty sure this is the least I can do.”

The time spent cleaning passed all too quickly, and while Sam had nowhere important to be - at least, not until he found something they could use to track down who or whatever was causing the disturbances and deaths on campus - clearly the same could not be said for his companion.  Another glance towards the clock and the man sighed, toweling his hands dry and tossing the cloth onto the side to be dealt with later.

“Listen, I gotta head out to work, post the key through the letterbox downstairs when you’re ready to head out.”  He paused, a slightly wistful expression on his face, and it must have been the early morning light because the man’s eyes seemed to _glow_ , flecks of gold floating in honey and Sam was utterly lost.  “I can’t pretend to know what you want, kiddo, but-”

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.”  Sam interrupted before he could finish, reaching out to snag the man by the waistband of his stolen boxer shorts.  “I don’t know what we can have, or what you want us to be, or what we are - but I don’t want this to be _it_ .  I don’t want _just_ this.”

“Then it won’t be.”  God, Sam could drown in that smile, chasing after lips that smirked and teased until he kissed both the expression and the words away.  “And next time, I might actually let you guess my name.”

 

* * *

 

A trickster.  A demigod. The man he had thought - _hoped_ \- might be his intended, wasn’t even human.  He had realised it at almost the same moment Dean had, and though he knew they hadn’t actually matched, it didn’t stop the unpleasant spike of almost-betrayal that seemed to lodge itself in his throat.

“We don’t know yet, it might not be him.”  Dean had murmured as they prepared to head out, too low for Bobby to pick up on, too quiet and careful, accompanying eyes filled with a pity that Sam did not want.  He half wished the irritation back, the argument that had gone on for days, engineered by a trickster that wanted them chasing their tails. The concern was worse, somehow, and the words themselves false.

Because of course it was him, of _course_ it was, and maybe that was why his reaction to hearing his words from the janitor’s mouth had triggered the reaction they had, why even after finding the man’s right wrist to be utterly devoid of writing he still couldn’t seem to get those whisky-bright eyes or that teasing grin out of his mind.  The lips and fingers that had taken him apart, only to put him back together again. Because the man he was utterly _gone_ for, wasn’t even human.  A creature had never uttered his words before.

He - because no matter what Dean or Bobby or his father _ever_ said, he could never be an ‘it’ - was nothing more or less than one of the things they were expected to hunt, and it was going to be down to Sam to actually prove it, whether he wanted to or not.

 

* * *

 

The regret that twisted Dean’s face when it became apparent there would be no peaceful solution was obvious enough that even Bobby couldn’t have missed it.  Sam was lucky, really, that the chainsaw buzzing too close to his head kept him focused on the immediate and very real danger to his own life, kept him from dwelling on the man in the epicentre of the room, on the odd pull in his gut that told him this whole thing was utterly _wrong_.

This was a job, like any other, and the trickster had to die.

Yet as the wooden stake slid home and the gurgle of freshly spilled blood seemed too loud even over his rushing heartbeat - the stake he himself had tossed to his brother - Sam couldn’t help the low keen of pain that spilled from his throat as he stumbled on unsteady legs to stand at Dean’s side.  The trickster slumped back as the stake squelched free, clattering back into his seat with a look of utter shock frozen across his features.

Sam found himself just as frozen, nailed to the spot as he stared down at the lifeless face of the trickster, amber eyes devoid of the sparkling mirth he had become so attached to, a trickle of blood marring the mouth he had kissed and bitten and loved until their combined breath gave out.  

“You guys okay?”  He should be, he really should - it had only been a handful of days and yet Sam felt this loss all too keenly in a way he couldn’t really explain.  He had lost people before, _good_ people, and it hadn’t felt like this.  Raw, untamed, yet nothing like the aching chasm of losing Jess, or the sharp stab of guilt and loss from those in his life who he hadn’t had the chance to get to know better before they were taken from him.

“Yeah.”  He replied after a beat too long, swallowing around the lump lodged in his throat.  “I guess.”

“The guy had style.”  Dean offered up, and it wasn’t enough but it helped, just a little.  The unspoken apology was there, a tentative sort of olive branch because, despite everything - Dean knew.  He knew, and he understood, and if Bobby hadn’t been standing with them in that moment Sam might well have hugged his brother and refused to let go.  To give in to the prickling ache behind his eyes, just for a moment, and grieve the way the ache in his chest was telling him to.

It was Bobby’s hand at his back that got him moving, a shove and a warning and he followed after his brother, out to the Impala on trembling legs that he might have been able to pass off as adrenaline if he had cared to.  His wrist itched under the band, ants against his skin and he could picture the words slowly vanishing into nothing. It wouldn’t be instantaneous, around six weeks from the death of a soulmate until the words vanished into new, clean skin - but the itching was indication enough that it had started.  He fumbled with the cover-up strap as the Impala roared into life and Dean sped off, away from Crawford Hall, away from the body they had left behind.

The strap skittered to the floor at his feet and vanished somewhere under his seat.  He wanted to claw at his skin, scrape blunt nails against his words until they bled out, until the itching stopped for good and the shape of the letters was illegible.  Because despite everything, despite all proof to the contrary - despite the absence of words on the trickster’s own wrist Sam had _known_.

The trickster had been his intended.  And he’d killed him anyway.


	2. Hollywood Babylon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam attempts to move on from his loss at Crawford Hall. It goes about as well as can be expected, for a Winchester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter, this time! A bit more Sam, before we move on to the serious Gabe action :3
> 
> As always, MASSIVE thanks to my beta, the talented [WarlockWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarlockWriter/pseuds/WarlockWriter), but also to the wonderful [ScrollingKingfisher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScrollingKingfisher/pseuds/ScrollingKingfisher) who lets me throw ideas about and puts up with my rambling without complaint!

Four weeks and several hundred miles hadn’t helped Sam to move past the ache in his chest and the phantom pain at his wrist - and based on his father and Bobby’s inability to do the same over the years since losing their intendeds, he likely never would.  Those first few hours in the Impala, with AC/DC drowning out anything resembling conversation and Bobby watching him carefully from the back seat, had been Sam’s own personal hell. Dean had kept his eyes on the road, ignoring Sam’s attempt to keep himself together, to stop himself from crumbling and breaking even as the already fragile stitches holding him together stretched just that bit too far.  

He hadn’t slept at all that first night, hadn’t really wanted to try, knowing whatever he saw on the other side of the curtain of consciousness would be far worse than the heavy eyes and lonely silence ever could be.  Bobby’s place was safe enough, at least, that he could spend those scant few hours pointing his focus inwards at the raw and white-hot ache that had bloomed within him as the enormity of what had happened, what he had _done_ , finally settled.

The itching of his words had shifted into a low burn after a while, flames licking under his skin along each line and curve, a caress that felt too much like his own betrayal.

He couldn’t get the image of lifeless golden eyes and blood-smeared lips out of his head.

No more than three days after everything ended, and for the first time since he had met the man who had come to mean too much too quickly, Sam heard his words again.  A pretty little brunette who barely came up to his chest with huge round eyes and dimples; she was a store assistant he had stumbled upon while he was picking up more salt than any regular person had any business owning.  She was cute, just similar enough for the reminder and comparison to be inevitable, and when the quiet ‘can I help you?’ tumbled from her lips Sam froze out of instinct.

He felt nothing.  No itch, no burst of heat against his wrist, no narrowing of focus to her and her alone.  The biological reaction to hearing his phrase, the one that he had grown used to over the years, had simply vanished.  He left the store empty-handed, hit the nearest bar - _hard_ \- and tried to forget everything for a few short hours.

Any lingering doubt that remained trickled from his mind, and there was a gaping sort of finality to it.

As the days had shifted into weeks and the weather steadily warmed, those same four words still remained stubbornly whole upon his wrist.  It took longer for some people - Bobby’s had taken almost three months to vanish after Karen’s death. His father had, according to Dean, lost his words in under a month.  He remembered Dean’s recollection of that time, half-drunk after a hunt gone sideways, of how their father had suffered - losing the other half of his soul, and then losing his last physical link to her only a few short weeks later.  How Dean, at five years old, had been left alone with a six month old child to care for as John vanished for almost three days and wasn’t the same man when he finally returned, stinking of cheap beer and cigarettes and blood. How Dean was absolutely terrified that his own mark might actually mean something, that the life of a hunter meant he might end up feeling that same pain, losing someone he didn’t even have yet.  How he didn’t want _Sam_ to go through that either.

Dean had shut down after the next beer, and they hadn’t spoken about it since.

Sam had dug the band out from under the passenger seat some time after they left Bobby’s, strapping it back into place if only to stop the scrape of his nails against his own flesh, trying to claw out the ache so that he could feel whole again.  Dean hadn’t spoken to him about what had happened, but Sam would have had to have been blind to miss the furtive glances sent his way now that they were alone, the way his brother’s attention lingered on his exposed wrist and the angry red welts he had gouged into it while in the throes of a nightmare.

The dreams that had plagued him since that night were nothing short of devastating.  A pleasure-pain mix that left him reeling, memories blurring and twisting until he had to stumble from his bed at just after 3am to empty the contents of his stomach into the stained porcelain of the motel toilet.  It had become a nightly ritual; private, angry tears spilled from exhausted eyes, swiped away with a halfhearted hand so that he could rinse his mouth and wash his face in the sink, stumbling back to bed before Dean might decide to forego pretending to sleep and check on him.  He didn’t need that, and more importantly he didn’t want it, curling into itchy, cheap sheets that carried the scent of stale sweat and strangers and closing his eyes against the ache.

By morning, the redness around his eyes would have faded to a bone-deep exhaustion, and the patch on his stained pillowcase would have dried.  The shudder of his shoulders might have given him away if Dean were to roll over and look at him, silent sobs that should have served to wash away some of the ache, yet they didn’t.  Couldn’t. Never would.

He knew in his heart, realistically, that they hadn’t had much of a choice; going up against a trickster that powerful was always going to be dangerous, and Dean had been right - they _couldn’t_ just leave him to keep killing, no matter how guilty his victims, no matter their crimes.  Creatures who preyed on humans had to be put down - that was the rule they had always lived by, and there couldn’t be exceptions.  Still, there was the near-constant _what if_ that wouldn’t abate.  What if Sam had noticed earlier that the man was not all he pretended to be?  What if they’d actually sat down and talked about it, rather than cornering the Trickster like a wild animal?  They’d put him down like one too, a beast and a monster instead of a man, and Sam couldn’t help the festering resentment he felt towards his brother for taking the decision away from him.

Except, Sam had agreed to the plan, had hoped that his appearance might have persuaded his intended to back off and to - what, exactly?  Keep his pranks PG-rated and decidedly less deadly? No, he would never have agreed to that, not even for Sam, not when all they had was a half-formed bond and the memories of a single night together.  And at the end of the day, the stake that had killed him had been offered from Sam’s own hand. He might as well have delivered the killing blow himself.

The bruises on his hips still stung, even though they had long since faded from view.  Phantom fingers that held him in his solitude.

So, Sam let himself cry, let his body grieve as it wished, and by morning no one else would be any the wiser.

 

* * *

 

Madison had seemed like a nice distraction, a pretty face and a fun personality that he could lose himself in for a few days, maybe longer if things went well.  Not forever, but she was pliable and soft beneath his hands, her body delightfully responsive to his touch, and when they kissed it was _nice_ .  Pleasant.   _Normal_.  She wasn’t Jess, too loud and her sense of humour was entirely different, but he didn’t want her to be.

She wasn’t him, either.  Sam couldn’t imagine letting another man touch him as the trickster had, as his intended had, all burning hands and hot mouth and bruises with a slow worship that Sam hadn’t known he had needed - but that was okay.  He could live with that.

Dean had liked her, had approved - encouraged it, even though they both knew it was much, much too soon.  Sam didn’t want to look too far into that, knowing that his brother’s motivations weren’t exactly selfless, knowing that dealing with the inevitable resentment on top of everything else would be simply too much.  As much as Dean wanted Sam to be happy, wanted to chase away the agony that gripped his little brother all too tightly and refused to let go, he also wanted - _needed_ \- to ensure that Sam wasn’t a liability.  For Sam’s sake, for Dean’s sake, and for the sake of every person they worked alongside or had a responsibility to save, he couldn’t allow Sam’s grief to affect him to that extent.  And even with all that, there was still more; Dean wanted his four hours of uninterrupted sleep where he could get it, he wanted bickering and arguments across the sticky table of a highway diner, wanted the light-hearted ribbing as they drove for hours along roads that were as beautiful as they were forgettable.  The _familiarity_ had slipped, for the moment, and Dean was desperate to get it back.

Sam hated him a little bit for it, hated how selfish the whole thing was.  Hated how selfish _he himself_ was - hated how Dean seemed to have an idea on how to get their lives back on track, while Sam couldn’t even figure out where to start.  And yet, as the days ticked by, much to Sam’s surprise it actually started to help. Dean knew where they were going, Dean knew how to get there, and while he still ached to his very core - it wasn’t quite so bad any more.

And then it had all gone wrong.  Terribly, horribly wrong and Sam had the blood of yet another lover on his hands.  Jess had died because she had gotten too close to him. His intended had died to fulfil some moral obligation that was making less and less sense each day, because he was too weak to stop it.  Madison had died at his hand, because he was too many weeks too late to save her.

He had so much blood on his hands, Sam wasn’t sure if they would ever be clean again.  No matter how he looked at things, how he tried to pretend, he knew that he would always, _always_ , be a danger to those around him.

They didn’t stay for the funeral, but at least his words didn’t burn quite so intensely any more.

 

* * *

 

Sam hadn’t wanted to be there, not really.  But then, he didn’t wanted to be particularly anywhere, and a job was a job.  Dean’s forced peppy attitude was starting to grate as well, and he knew even as they wandered down the rain-soak walkways between studios that he wouldn’t be able to keep the company of his brother for overly long that morning, not if he wanted to keep himself from lashing out unintentionally.  Not that it mattered too much; they worked just as well apart as they did together, particularly at the start of a hunt when reconnaissance and research were far more important than acting prematurely and potentially getting themselves hurt, or worse. He had more than enough valid excuses to get away from his brother, to flee from the conversation they were both dodging as though their lives depended on it.

“I just figured that, you know, everything that happened with Madison and...and that guy…”  Dean swallowed, looking oddly nervous and for once trying not to hide it. “You’d need a little R and R.  That’s all.” Neither of them was particularly good at talking, no matter how Dean might rib him for being ‘in touch with his sensitive side’.  He knew that Dean was trying to think of Sam for once, failing spectacularly at it but _trying_ at least.  It stung, a tense spike of emotion from the ball of numbness in his chest, and Sam tried not to let it show.  Failed, in all likelihood, but Dean wasn’t looking at him any more, was too busy striding ahead with a single-minded sense of purpose that Sam had been sorely lacking of late.

He didn’t want to rest, to relax - that meant too much time to think, and Sam had allowed himself more than enough of that already.  His head wasn’t exactly a pleasant place to be, not at the moment. Wasn’t at the best of times, really, and he was torn between desperately wanting the distraction of the job - of bickering with Dean and having something other than the constant flip between numbness and pain to focus on - and wanting to curl into himself and forget that anything else existed outside of his own little bubble for a while.

Except, it had been weeks now, and he couldn’t afford or excuse any more downtime.  No, he needed to move on, or at the very least to force what remained of his emotions deep into his subconscious, where he could ignore them.  Into the same box that held the last wisps of his hope, and hide it where he might never have to look at it again. No, focusing on the job was all he had for the moment, and at least the intel he’d gathered so far made it sound vaguely interesting.

Sam hadn’t been interested in any of their jobs, really, since before Crawford Hall.  That he felt even a spark of _something_ was good news, he supposed.

Getting mistaken for assistants had been a stroke of luck, even if Sam had absolutely no intention of spending his time in the studio following jumped-up studio executives around with cups of coffee.  Dean, however, slotted into the role as though he had been made for it - and maybe in another life, one where they didn’t have to carry around fake ID’s and a trunk full of very illegal weaponry, he might have been.

Which left Sam free to do as he pleased, speaking with potential sources of information and scouring the local library and records office for anything that might be of use.  It was almost odd, how eager those he spoke to seemed to be, how they wanted to share their stories with such an overwhelming enthusiasm that he was almost certain it wouldn’t matter _who_ he said he was.  But then again - he was in L.A. so really, he shouldn’t have expected anything less.

Each story that spilled from eager lips was more unbelievable, more highly-embellished than the last - from jilted lovers to ghost dogs, suicides to murders, and not one reflected anything even remotely resembling the truth once Sam was able to sit down with his laptop and look into the pile of stories he had been given.  Nothing he could actually use, and a waste of perfectly good paper as well.

By the time he returned to the studio to track Dean down and let him know what a monumental waste of time his day had been, Sam had managed to wind himself tighter than a coiled spring, ready to explode at any given moment.

Dean didn’t seem to have noticed his absence, and even upon his return his brother seemed entirely more interested in conversing with whoever was on the other end of his radio’s earpiece than actually listening to what Sam had to say.  

 _So much for his promised ‘R and R’_.  He left again before he could snap at Dean, taking the opportunity to explore the grounds around the studio, leaving the set itself to Dean to monitor and hoping that his brother wasn’t too distracted to actually do his job.  Normally he wouldn’t mind; it was nice, seeing the normally too-serious Dean actually genuinely joking and laughing with other people for once. For all he liked to berate Sam for being a ‘stick in the mud’, Dean’s usual escape involved a bottle - or six - and the bed of whichever faceless and nameless woman caught his eye that night.  Sure, he smiled, he laughed, but Sam could count on one hand how many times the expression actually reached his eyes.

Now, though?  Dean’s eyes crinkled as he leaned in, chatting with a shorter man, body language relaxed in a way Sam hadn’t seen in entirely too long.  And he couldn’t begrudge his brother this temporary reprieve, he just couldn’t.

At his wrist, his words seemed to flare for a moment and Sam hissed, earning an odd look from a bespectacled woman carrying a clipboard as he turned away to tug at his cover strap.  The leather fell away from his skin, and aside from the slowly healing self-inflicted damage, it remained whole and unblemished. It _hurt_ though, in a way it hadn’t in weeks, and Sam had no idea what to make of that.

“You alright?”  He hadn’t heard the woman approach and Sam startled, taking a rapid sidestep before turning to face her, resembling something like a rabbit in headlights.  “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” From her slight accent, he would have placed her as being from the East Coast, perhaps early fifties and with a face full of makeup that she likely didn’t need but which, in this industry, was expected.

“No, no it’s fine - I’m fine, really.”  The critical gaze was enough to make Sam wither slightly, feeling rather smaller than his six foot four frame usually allowed.

“Sure you are.”  She replied with a roll of her eyes, taking his sleeve and leading him out towards the staff rest area.  She was rather on the tall side, large glasses taking up a good half of her face and highlighting dark eyes with darker lashes.  She had something of a motherly air to her, and when she pushed Sam into a battered plastic chair, he sat without complaint. A polystyrene cup appeared in front of him and he wrapped his hands around it out of instinct.  His companion sat herself opposite with her own cup, hot milky coffee steaming up her glasses as she sipped at it.

“Thanks.”  The coffee was hot against his tongue, not quite enough to burn but close and far better than he was used to.  He watched her with a certain amount of curiosity as she tugged her glasses from her face, wiping them on her shirt to clear away the steam before perching them back on her upturned nose.

“No problem.”  Her eyes lingered on Sam’s still-exposed wrist, the words half visible beneath his jacket sleeve.  It wasn’t as though it was expected to keep the words hidden - many people didn’t bother, but John had been more than insistent when Sam was younger - he didn’t want to _see_ , didn’t want to know that those words existed - and old habits die hard.  “Samantha.” She added, and Sam almost spat his drink across the table, choking on the hot liquid and earning an amused glance.

“Sorry?”  Sam choked out, eyes watering as she offered him the same odd look she had treated him to earlier.

“My name - I’m Samantha.”  She clarified, and Sam had to take several more gulps of coffee before he could get the cough under control.

“Oh.”  He finally croaked, lungs burning as he gulped down air, trying not to devolve into another coughing fit.  “I’m Sam.”

“Huh.”  She - _Samantha_ \- grinned at him in amusement, the too-white teeth of a Hollywood smile he couldn’t quite get used to shining out from behind painted lips.  “Fancy that. So, what brings you here, Sam?”

“Work, mostly.  You?” He offered her a half-shrug, fingers playing with the cup as something to keep them busy, to stop them from rubbing or scratching at his wrist.

“Same.  Work and circumstance.”  Samantha replied somewhat cryptically, leaning back in her seat and hooking one booted ankle over the other.  “It bothering you?” She nodded to his exposed wrist, and Sam couldn’t help the aborted movement to cover his words with his hand.

“Yeah, I-”  Sam stopped for a moment, staring down at his now-empty coffee cup, squeezing the white styrene between his hands.  “He’s dead.” For the life of him, Sam couldn’t work out quite what possessed him to just blurt that out, and yet once he had something seemed to clear.  He needed... _something_ , though he wasn’t sure what.  Something that Dean couldn’t or wouldn’t give him, something that he wouldn’t find in a one-night stand or a first date.

Perhaps he simply needed to talk.

“Shit, I’m sorry.”  A warm hand settled over his arm - the other one, the blank one, and he appreciated the gesture.  “I mean, I guessed with how you were acting, but still.”

“You guessed?”  He asked, voice low.  Samantha smiled at him again, yet the mirth was gone as she shucked off her jacket, exposing her upper arm where the words ‘ _Come here oft-ow!_ ’ stood out in stark relief against her skin.  A heavy black ink, too dark and neat to have been natural, even against the olive tones of her arm.

“I had them put back.  My husband, he-” A quick tongue darted out to moisten too-pink lips as she pulled her jacket back up again, and Sam wondered distantly how the lipstick stayed in place.  “He killed himself, six years ago now. I didn’t know how to be without him, so before they could go completely I went to a tattoo place with a few photos and had them put my words back.”

“I’m sorry.”  And really, what else could he say to that, his own hand moving to rest over hers where it remained against his arm.

“It hurts, and it never really stops hurting, but-”  Her eyes were boring into his, dark and firm with a certainty that tugged at something within his chest.  “It gets easier. Every day, it gets easier, and you can’t really forget or let go - but the pain will fade until it’s less raw, and one day you’ll wake up and he won’t be the first thing you think of that morning.  You’ll be able to move on and, trust me, it’s worth the fight.” Samantha’s expression softened into something genuine, and she flashed her left hand at Sam, a simple gold band sitting around her ring finger. “A year, next month.  He’s not my soulmate, but we love each other, and he’s worth waking up for each day.”

“I’m glad.”  He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back, before pulling away, looking lighter than she had before.  “And, thank you.”

“No problem.”  Standing, she reached out to pat his shoulder as she passed, offering one final, parting smile as she left him to his thoughts.  “Just, try to keep smiling, Sam.”

 

* * *

 

The job turned out to be anything but a standard salt-and-burn, and Sam wasn’t sure whether he should be pleased about that or not.  On the one hand, the distraction was nice, but on the other - something didn’t sit quite right in his gut, and he was trying desperately to ignore it, knowing, without really looking, what his mind was doing to him.  What it was trying to do to him.

Because two dead bodies, killed by two entirely separate vengeful spirits - one of whom was a Hollywood starlet - in a place previously untouched by paranormal activity?  It held just barely enough of a similarity to the case at Crawford Hall that Sam couldn’t help how he put two and two together, ending up with five and self-aware enough to know it wasn’t, that it _couldn’t be_ him, but God he wanted the curling ache of almost-hope in his chest to be right for once.

It wasn’t - of _course_ it wasn’t, _his_ trickster had died at his brother’s hand and wasn’t coming back - and yet, finding out that the cause of the deaths and of the hauntings was nothing more or less than an idiotic human messing with things he didn’t fully understand, it ached more than Sam wanted to admit.

And maybe that was why he stood back and watched as Walter Dixon was torn to shreds right before his eyes.  He couldn’t have stopped it, not even if he had wanted to - and that was the problem really, wasn’t it? Sam hadn’t wanted to stop it.  He stood, and watched, and didn’t even flinch at the man’s desperate, dying screams.


End file.
